


Rest in this blessed wood

by gotfanfiction



Series: Fairy Tale Time [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22514167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotfanfiction/pseuds/gotfanfiction
Summary: Geralt breathed in deeply, putting the dull throb of torn and burnt flesh from his mind, even if just for a moment, and allowed himself to rest.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Fairy Tale Time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897204
Comments: 21
Kudos: 263





	Rest in this blessed wood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [troubadore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/gifts).



> Hammered out with no beta. If there's a glaring typo pls let me know. This is for angryalchemist <3

There's a legend of a serene forest. Everyone who passes through feels refreshed. It's become something of a safe haven for people fleeing from dark things, be they human or other. 

Those that have visited say the power comes from a sleeping prince, who suffers from a cursed sleep, but whose spirit was so pure that it spread out from where he rested, and blessed the woods. 

Geralt doesn't believe the bit about the sleeping prince, but he can feel the aura of this place and knows he'll be safe here, able to rest while his wounds heal.

Roach is free to wander around, and eats her fill of the sweet grasses and dandelions that blanket the forest floor. Geralt strips out of his armor with shaking fingers, and sets about patching himself up. The stink of salves and potions clashes with the calm breeze that floats dreamily through the clearing where he and Roach finally stopped, but he can't quite bring himself to care.

He'd dispatched the nest of harpies who'd been terrorizing a moderately sized town, but when he had returned to collect his coin he'd been driven out by fire and blade both. He thinks of his purse, which is near empty, and thinks of the alderman's purse, which is very full and sitting in one of Roach's bags.

Geralt wouldn't say that it had been stolen, exactly, for he had earned it with his work and blood, but he _had_ ripped it off the man's belt. So. There was that. He finished smearing ointment on a burn on his jaw, put there by a villager who'd gotten a lucky, glancing blow with a torch.

It was fair to assume they'd been whipped into a frenzy by the mayor, who had publically spit on Geralt when he asked where to find the alderman who'd posted the notice. They had formed a mob, and had been waiting for his return. Waiting to ambush him, hoping for his death and to keep their coin and to be rid of the harpies all at once.

It also wasn't the first time Geralt had been driven from a place with violence, but it usually didn't happen to him when he was already injured and weary. He wrapped the bandages around his torso as best he could, cursing his luck and his life and the lies people told to themselves and to each other. It brought him little comfort.

But this place was safe, a good day's hard ride away from that blighted place and it's wretched dwellers. He let the magic, faint as it was, idly drift over him, woven into the wind and scent that it carried.

And there something in it that whispered of soft things, of a comfort and peace that was irresistible, driving him to lay down in the bed of leaves and flowers and grass closing his eyes in contentment. Geralt breathed in deeply, putting the dull throb of torn and burnt flesh from his mind, even if just for a moment, and allowed himself to rest.

***

When Geralt opened his eyes, he, too, felt refreshed. Obviously some mage had cast some powerful magic on this forest, and it lingered still. He wasn't going to complain. The burns and slashes still hurt, pulling at the skin around them as they healed, but he felt as though he had slept for a week.

He sat up, noticing Roach drowsing near a tree, the setting sun filtering bronze through the leaves and dappling her coat. She'd done well, carrying them both here at a full gallop. She deserved her rest.

Geralt was hungry, however, so he set off further into the woods in search of something to hunt for dinner. He sniffed at the breeze, and it led him further away from the camp he'd made, twisting around him almost playfully.

The mage must have been powerful indeed, to still have an effect as strong as this, but Geralt could feel no true compulsion, no evil or seductive intent.

It felt simply like the joy of living, and a desire for him to celebrate with whoever was experiencing such a thing. So he followed along, hoping he'd at least find something to eat, knowing nothing would trouble or hurt him.

Soon enough he entered another clearing, this one somehow more peaceful than the last, the feeling filling Geralt's chest til he felt as though he could burst with it. The sudden prick of tears in his nose was surprising, and as he shook his head to be rid of it he saw it out of the corner of his eye.

Or rather, Geralt saw _him_. A young man lay at the base of a great, tall, tree, the roots almost cradling him and the lute he clutched in pale hands, and Geralt knew, then, that this man had been the source of wind, the safety, the blessed magic of this forest, and was seized with a sudden desire to thank him.

Which was an unnatural sort of thing for him, and Geralt was wary for the first time he and Roach had set foot in the forest. It was clearly some sort of compulsion now; he could feel it pressing at him. Without thinking he approached the man, while a voice without voice urged him to kiss the slack lips, wasn't he so lovely and peaceful? 

And Geralt tried to resist, but the magic had snared him, his defenses lowered by the aura permeating the very air, and he leaned down, and pressed a kiss into the corner of the man's mouth.

Geralt was almost disappointed when nothing happened; no bursts of magic or showers of light. He began to lean back, but the man breathed in for the first time, and how distracted was Geralt, that he didn't even notice the lack of breath, turned his head, and properly kissed Geralt.

The stranger's hands soon wound themselves into Geralt's hair, lute apparently forgotten, and when a tongue gently traced his lower lip, Geralt opened his mouth on a moan, magic swirling through his head, through his blood, making him dizzy.

Before he knew it, Geralt had a lapfull of cursed young man, a cursed young man who had no compunctions about kissing a complete stranger. A hand brushed gently against the burn on his face, and the pain that briefly flared up was enough to snap Geralt back into awareness, and he grabbed the other man by his upper arms and pushed him out of his lap and onto the forest floor.

The young man blinked up at him, confusion twisting his pretty face up. They both staggered to their feet, chests heavy from magic and desire.

"Not that I'm against kissing beautiful strangers," the cursed man's voice wasn't even rough with sleep, "But I really have no idea what is happening, or how I got here? You wouldn't mind helping a poor bard out, would you?"

Geralt did his best to ignore the wink the bard gave him. "You were in a cursed sleep. Going by the rumors I've heard, it's been at least forty years, maybe fifty."

"I... oh." The bard swallowed heavily, looking away from Geralt for the first time since he opened his eyes. "Well. My name is Jaskier, bard of middling renown, and may I add that I am very pleased you came along? Who knows how long I would have been stuck here, if not for you?"

Geralt shook his head. "The magic was powerful enough to ensare a witcher; someone would have gotten to you eventually." 

He hesitated, but continued. "I'm Geralt. Of Rivia. I have a camp set up, not far from here." It was very strange, the way Jaskier's whole face lit up with delight at learning who and what he was, but he was most likely glad to be free from the curse. Geralt no longer felt compulsion, but the magic swooped around the two of them, fulfilled and joyous with it.

Jaskier stooped down to retrieve his instrument, and played a chord. Both of them cringed at the noise he produced, and as Geralt lead the way out of the clearing, he could here the quiet cursing as the bard struggled to tune a lute that had been sitting around for half a century.

Geralt was too fucking old to be taken in by stories about true love's kiss, but he was hyper aware of Jaskier's every movement, his scent and the low hum of his voice.

What puzzled him the most was why he'd fallen victim to the magic when there had been people coming in and out of these woods for years. Why him, a witcher, wholly unsuited to starring this sort of story, and not one of the dozens of others? Why was Jaskier placed here, cursed to sleep, whatever magic living in him seeping out to enliven this place into something blessed and secure?

It prickled at him, something that felt like destiny, felt like coming home, felt like peace.

Geralt was fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it, and I look forward to more witcher works in my future :] Come find me on twitter ;)


End file.
